by Jack Vance
Jantiff stopped short in shock and astonishment Skorlet strode grimly forward without slackening her pace. Jantiff ran to catch up. “You can’t be serious!”
“Naturally I’m serious!”
But I only reclaimed the property he stole from me! Isn’t that a reasonable act?”
“You should use the word ‘snerge’; it’s far more polite.”
“I was quite polite to Esteban, under the circumstances.”
“Not really. You know how fastidiously proud he is.”
“Hmmf. I don’t understand how any Arrabin can be proud.”
Skorlet swung around and briskly slapped Jantiff’s face. Jantiff stood back, then shrugged. In silence they returned to their apartment Skorlet flung open the door and marched into the sitting room. Jantiff closed the door with exaggerated care.
Skorlet swung around to face him. Jantiff retreated, but Skorlet now was remorseful. In a throbbing voice she cried: “It was wrong to strike you; please forgive me.”
“My fault, really,” mumbled lentil’. “I should not have mentioned the Arrabins.”
“Let’s not talk about it; we’re both tired and troubled. In fact, let’s go to bed and copulate, to restore our equanimity; I simply must relax.”
“That’s an odd notion but—oh, I suppose so, if you’re of a mind.”
Arriving at Kedidah’s apartment, Jantiff found only Sarp on the premises. Sarp announced, gruffly that Kedidah would be back shortly “—with noise and confusion and jerking about this way and that. Not an easy one to share with, iv tell you!”
“A pity!” said Jantiff. “Why don’t you trade apartments with someone?”
“Easier said than done! Who’d choose to burden their lives with such a hity-tity waloonch? And will she pick up behind herself? Never. She creates disorder out of the thin air!”
“As a matter of fact I find my own roommate just a bit too quietly self-contained,” said Jantiff. “One hardly knows she is about, and she has an almost geometrical sense of tidiness. Perhaps I might be persuaded to trade with you.”
Sarp’ cocked his head to the side, and squinted dubiously at Jantiff. “It’s always a gamble. Who is this paragon of yours?”
“Her name is Skorlet.”
Sarp emitted a wild hoot of derision. “Skorlet! Neat? With her incessant cult-globes? And ‘quietly self-contained’? She is not only talkative but meddlesome and domineering! She hectored poor Wissilim so that he not only changed levels but moved clear out of Old Pink! What kind of fool do you take me for?”
“You misunderstand her; she is actually quite mild. Look here; I’ll even include an inducement.”
“Such as what?”
“Well, I’ll paint your portrait, in several, colors.”
“Ha! Yonder hangs the mirror; what else do I need?”
“Well—here is a fine stylus I brought from Zeck: a scientific marvel. It draws carbon and water and nitrogen from the air to formulate a soft ink which it then burns permanently upon paper. It never fans and lasts a lifetime.”
“I write very little. What else can you offer?”
“I don’t have a great deal else. A jade and silver medallion for your cap?”
“I’m not a vain man; I’d only trade it out on the mud fiats for a mouthful of boater, so what’s the odds? Good old gruff and deedle with wobbly to fill in the chinks: that’ll do for me.”
“I thought Kedidah was such a trial.”
“Compared to Skorlet she’s an angel of mercy. A bit noisy and over-gregarious; who could deny it? And now she’s taken up with Garch Darskin of the Ephthalotes… In fact, here she comes now.”
The door swung aside; into the apartment burst Kedidah with three muscular young men. “Good, kind Sarp!” cried Kedidah. “I knew I’d find him borne! Bring out your jug of swill and pour us all a toddy; Garch has been at practice and I’m exhausted watching him.”
“The swill is gone,” growled Sarp. “You finished it yesterday.”
Kedidah took heed of Jantiff. “Here’s an obliging fellow! Jantiff, fetch us in your jug of swill. Hussade is a taxing occupation and we’re all in need of a toddy!”
“Sorry,” said Jantiff rather stiffly… I’m not able to oblige you.”
“What a bore. Garch, Kirso, Rambleman; this is Janty Ravensroke, from Zeck. Janty, you are meeting the cutting edge of the Ephthalotes: the most efficient team on Wyst!”
“I am honored to make your acquaintance,” said Jantiff in his most formal voice.
“Jantiff is very talented,” said Kedidah. “He produces the most fascinating drawings! Jantiff, do us a picture!”
Jantiff shook his head in embarrassment “Really, Kedidah, I just don’t knock out these things on the spur of the moment. Furthermore, I don’t have my equipment with me.”
“You’re just modest! Come now, Janty, produce something witty and amusing! Look, there’s your stylus, and somewhere, somewhere, somewhere, a scrap of paper… Use the back of this registration form.”
Jantiff reluctantly took the materials. “What shall I draw?”
“Whatever suits you. Me, Garch, or even old Sarp.”
“Don’t bother with me,” said Sarp. “Anyway I’m going out to meet Esteban. He’s got some mysterious proposal to communicate.”
“It’s probably just his bonterfest; rd go instantly if I had the tokens. Jantiff, perform for us! Do Rambleman; he’s the most picturesque! Notice his nose; it’s like the fluke of an anchor: pure North Pombal for you!”
With stiff fingers Jantiff set to work. The others watched a moment or two then fell to talking and paid him no further heed. In disgust Jantiff rose to his feet and left the apartment. No one seemed so much as to notice his going.
Dear all of you:
Thanks forever for the pigments; I’ll guard these with great care. Skorlet snerged my last set to paint designs upon her cult-globes. She hoped to sell them for a large sum, but now she thinks Kibven, the Disjerferact booth-tender, cheated her. She’s dreadfully exasperated, so I walk very carefully around the apartment. She’s become abstracted and distant; I can’t understand why. Something is hanging in the air. The bonterfest? This is a big event both for herself and for Tanzel. I don’t pretend to understand Skorlet; still I can’t evade the impression that she’s disturbed and unsettled. Tanzel is a pleasant little creature. I took her to Disjerferact and spent all of half an ozol buying her such delicacies as toasted seaweed and sour eel tarts. The Disjerferact traders are none of them Arrabins, and a more curious collection you never saw. Disjerferact covers a large area and there are thousands of them: folk from I don’t know where. Monte-banks, junk dealers, prestidigitators, gamblers, puppeteers and clown-masters, illusionists and marvel-makers, tricksters, grotesques, musicians, acrobats, clairvoyants, and of course the food-sellers. Disjerferact is pathetic, sordid, pungent, fascinating and a tumult of color and noise. Most amazing of all are the Pavilions of Rest, which must be unique in the Gaean universe. To the Pavilions come Arrabins who wish to die. Proprietors of the various pavilions vie in making their services attractive. There are five currently hi operation. The most economical operation is conducted upon a cylindrical podium ten feet high. The customer mounts the podium and there delivers a valedictory declamation, sometimes spontaneous, sometimes rehearsed over a period of months. These declamations are of great interest and there is always an attentive audience, cheering, applauding or uttering groans of sympathy. Sometimes the sentiments are unpopular, and the speech is greeted with cat-calls. Meanwhile a snuff of black fur descends from above. Eventually it drops over the postulant and his explanations are heard no more. An enterprising Gaean from one of the Home Worlds has recorded a large number of these speeches and published them in a book entitled Before I Forget.
Nearby is Halcyon House. The person intent upon surcease, after paying his fee, enters a maze of prisms. He wanders here and there in a golden shimmer, while friends watch from the outside. His form becomes indistinct among the reflecti
ons and then is seen no more.
At the next pavilion, the Perfumed Boat floats in a channel. The voyager embarks and reclines upon a couch. A profusion of paper flowers is arranged over his body; he is tendered a goblet of cordial and sent floating away into a tunnel from which issue strains of ethereal music. The boat eventually floats back to the dock clean and empty. What occurs in the tunnel is not made clear.
The services provided by the Happy Way-Station are more convivial. The wayfarer arrives with all his boon companions. In a luxurious wood-paneled hall they are served whatever delicacies and tipple the wayfarer’s purse can afford. All eat, drink, reminisce; exchange pleasantries, until the lights begin to dim, whereupon the friends take their leave and the room goes dark. Sometimes the wayfarer changes his mind at the last minute and departs with his friends. On other occasions (so I am told) the party becomes outrageously jolly and mistakes may be made. The wayfarer manages to crawl away on his hands and knees, his friends remaining in a drunken daze around the table while the room goes dark.
The fifth pavilion is a popular place of entertainment, and is conducted like a game of chance. Five participants each wager a stipulated sum and are seated in iron chairs numbered one through five. Spectators also pay an admission fee and are allowed to make wagers. An index spins into motion, slows and stops upon a number. The person in the chair so designated wins five times his stake. The other four drop through trap doors and are seen no more. A tale—perhaps apocryphal—is told of a certain desperate man named Bastwick, who took Seat Two on a stake of only twenty tokens. He won and remained seated, his stake now a hundred tokens. Two won again, and again Bastwick remained seated, his stake now five hundred tokens. Again Two won, and Bastwick had gained twenty-five hundred tokens. In a nervous fit he fled the pavilion. Seat Two won twice more running. Had Bastwick remained seated, he would have won 62,500 tokens!
I visited the pavilions with Tanzel, who is very knowing; in fact my information is derived from her. I asked what happened to the cadavers, and I learned rather more than I wanted to know! The objects are macerated and flushed into a drain, along with all other wastes and slops. The slurry, known as “spent sturge,” is piped to a central processing plant, along with “spent sturge” from everywhere in the city. Here it is processed, renewed and replenished and piped back to all the blocks of the city as “ordinary sturge.” In the block kitchens the sturge becomes the familiar and nutritious gruff, deedle and wobbly.
While I am on the subject, let me recount a rather odd event which took place one morning last week. Skorlet and I chanced to be up on the roof garden when a corpse was discovered behind some thimble-pod bushes. Apparently he had been stabbed in the throat. People stood around muttering, Skorlet and I included, until eventually the Block Warden arrived. He dragged the body to the descensor, and that was that.
I was naturally perplexed by all this. I mentioned to Skorlet that no one on Zeck would touch the corpse until the police had investigated thoroughly.
Skorlet gave me her customary sneer. “This is an egalistic nation; we need no police, we have our Mutuals to advise us and to restrain crazy people.”
“Evidently the Mutuals aren’t enough!” I told her. “We’ve just seen a murdered man!”
Skorlet became annoyed. “That was Tango, a boisterous fellow and a cheat! He notoriously trades, his drudge, then never finds time to work off the stint He won’t be missed by anyone.”
“Do you mean to say that there won’t be an investigation of any kind?”
“Not unless someone files a report with the Warden.”
“Surely that’s unnecessary! The Warden hauled the body away.”,
“Well, he can hardly write out a report to himself. can he? Be practical!”
“I am practical! There’s a murderer among us, perhaps on our very own level!”
“Quite likely, but who wants to make the report? The Warden would then be obliged to interrogate everyone, and take, endless depositions; we would hear no end of disgraceful disclosures and everyone would be upset, to what real end?”
“So poor Tango is murdered, and no one cares.”
“He’s not ‘poor Tango’! He was a boor and a pest!”
I pursued the subject no further. I speculate that every society has a means of purging itself and ejecting offensive elements. This is how it is accomplished under egalism.
There’s so much to tell you that I can’t come to a stopping place. The public entertainments are prodigious. I have attended what they call a “shunkery,” which is beyond belief. Hussade is also very popular here; in fact, a friend of mine is acquainted with certain of the Ephthalotes, a team from Port Cass on the north coast of Zumer. None of the Arrabins play hussade. All the players hail from other parts of Wyst or offplanet. I understand that the games are rather more intense here than—
A tap-tap-tap. Jantiff put aside his letter and went to the door. Kedidah stood in the corridor. “Hello, Jantiff. Can I come in?”
Jantiff moved aside; Kedidah sauntered into the room. She gave Jantiff a look of mock-severe accusation. “Where have you been? I haven’t seen you for a week! You’re never even in the wumper!”
“I’ve been going late,” said Jantiff.
“Well, I’ve missed you. When one gets used to a person, he has no right to slink off into hiding.”
“You seem preoccupied with your Ephthalotes,” said Jantiff.
“Yes! Aren’t they wonderful? I adore hussade! They play today as a matter of fact. I was supposed to have a pass but I’ve lost it. Wouldn’t you like to go?”
“Not particularly, I’m rather busy—”
“Come, Janty, don’t be harsh with me. I believe that you’re jealous. How can you worry about a whole hussade team?”
“Very easily. There’s exactly nine times the worry, not counting substitutes. Nor the sheirl.”
“How silly! After all, a person can’t be’ split or diminished merely because she’s very busy.”
“It depends upon what she’s busy at,” muttered Jantiff. Kedidah only laughed. “Are you going with me to the hussade game? Please, Janty!”
Jantiff sighed in resignation. “When do you want to go?”
“Right now; in fact this very minute, or well be late. When I couldn’t find my pass, I was frantic until I thought of you, dear good boy that you are. Incidentally, you’ll have to pay my way in. I’m utterly bereft of tokens.”
Jantiff turned to face her, mouth quivering in speechless indignation. At the sight of her smiling face he gave a sour shrug. “I simply don’t understand you.”
“And I don’t understand you, Janty, so we’re in balance. What if we did? How would we benefit? Better the way we are. Come along now or we’ll be late.”
Jantiff returned to his letter:
—elsewhere.
By the strangest coincidence, I have just escorted my friend to the hussade game. The Ephthalotes played a team known as the Dangsgot Bravens, from the Caradas Islands. I am still shaken. Hussade at Uncibal is not like hussade at Frayness. The stadium is absolutely vast, and engorged with unbelievable hordes. Nearby one sees human faces and can even hear individual voices, but in the distance the crowd becomes a palpitating crust.
The game itself is standard, with a few local modifications not at all to my liking. The initial ceremonies are stately, elaborate and prolonged; after all, everyone has plenty of time. The players parade in splendid costumes, and are introduced one at a time. None, incidentally, are Arrabin. Each performs a number of ritual posture, then retires. The two sheirls appear at each end of the field, and ascend into their temples while a pair of orchestras play Glory to the Virgin Sheirls. At the same time a great wooden effigy is brought out on the field: a twelve-foot representation of the karkoon[21] Claubus, which the sheirls pointedly ignore, for reasons you will presently understand. A third orchestra plays blatant braying “karkoon” music, in antiphony to the two Glorys. I took note of the folk nearby; all were uneasy and restless,
shuddering at the discords, yet earnest and intent and keyed taut for the drama to come. The sheirls at this point stand quietly in their temples, enveloped in Dwanlight and a wonderful psychic haze, each the embodiment of all the graces and beauties; yet, certainly, through the minds of each whirl the thrilling questions: Will I be glorified? Will I be given to Claubus?
The game proceeds, until one of the teams can pay no more ransom. Their sheirl thereupon is defiled by Claubus in a most revolting and unnatural manner; in this condition she and Claubus are trundled around the field in a cart by the defeated team, to the accompaniment of the coarse braying music. The victors enjoy a splendid feast of bonter; the spectators undergo a catharsis and presumably are purged of their tensions. As for the humiliated sheirl, she has forever lost her beauty and dignity. She becomes an outcast and, in her desperation, may attempt almost anything. As you will perceive, hussade at Uncibal is not a merry pastime; it is a grim and poignant spectacle: an immensely popular public rite. Under the circumstances, it seems very odd that the teams never lack for beautiful sheirls, who are drawn to danger as a moth to flame. The Arrabins are indeed an odd people, who like to toy with the most morbid possibilities. For instance: at the shunk contests the barriers are quite low, and the shunk in their mad antics often charge over and into the spectators. Dozens are crushed. Are the barriers raised? Are those lower seats empty? Never! In such a way the Arrabins participate in these rituals of life and death. Needless to say, none expects to be torn to bits, just as no sheirl expects to be defiled. It is all sheer egocentricity: the myth of self triumphant over destiny! I believe that as folk become urbanized, just so intensely are they individuated, and not to the contrary. From this standpoint the crowds flowing along Uncibal River quite transcend the imagination. Try to think of it! Row after row, rank after rank of faces, each the node of a distinct and autonomous universe.
On this note I will close my letter. I wish I could inform you of definite plans, but for a fact I have none; I am torn between fascination and revulsion for this strange place.
